I believe that. That’s what makes this worse.
“Then why is he?” I demand. “Why is the man you’re dating suddenly standing in the middle of my kidnapping?”
Her shoulders tense. “I didn’t think he was capable of this,” she says.
“That’s not an answer,” I shoot back.
“It’s the only one I have.”
I glare at her, frustration tightening my chest. “You don’t get to give me fragments. Not after what we just went through.”
Her jaw tightens briefly before she smooths her expression. “I’m not excusing this,” she says. “I’m trying to understand it.”
“Start with me.”
She hesitates. And that hesitation isn’t guilt. It’s fear.
“You’re protecting him,” I accuse.
“I’m trying to stop this from spiraling,” she fires back.
“Spiraling?” I repeat. “We were shot at. Kidnapped. Tied up and dragged through a warehouse.”
Her chin lifts slightly. “I didn’t know it would go this far.”
“And how far did you think it would go?” I press. “Because from where I was sitting on that floor, it didn’t look like he was improvising.”
Her expression falters momentarily. “I didn’t know Arkady would be involved,” she says.
That’s new. My stomach clenches, and not just from adrenaline. “But you knew Ivan was.”
She doesn’t respond immediately. And that silence is louder than anything she could say.
“Lila.”
“I didn’t know it would escalate,” she repeats, but there’s less confidence in it now.
“You didn’t answer me.”
She exhales slowly, dragging a hand through her hair. “It’s complicated.”
I let out a short, unamused breath. “It doesn’t get to be complicated when I’m the one sitting in the middle of it.”
Her eyes drop briefly to my abdomen. I notice. “Don’t look at me like that,” I say quietly.
“I’m just—” Her voice trails off.
“I’m angry,” I admit, the words coming faster now. “Veryangry. And I’m trying not to let that turn into something I can’t take back. But you need to understand how this looks.”
She swallows hard enough that I see it. “I’m still your best friend,” she states.
“I know,” I answer.
That’s what makes this worse. Because if she weren’t, I’d already be done asking questions and trying to read between her words.
The quiet that follows feels strained rather than calm, the air between us thick with everything we haven’t resolved. We’re not standing in my kitchen or leaning against a nurses’ station. We’re locked inside a room with a painted shut window and a deadbolt we can’t reach.
Lila studies my face, searching it as if she’s trying to gauge how much damage has already been done. I can almost see the calculation behind her eyes as she pivots from argument to survival. Then her focus sharpens. She turns toward the door, stepping away from me and into motion.
